


Green

by castielsowhat



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Gen, M/M, but i hope my gift reciever likes it!, kind of a different style than usual, so im not exactly happy with this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2017-08-15
Packaged: 2018-12-15 18:34:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11811849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/castielsowhat/pseuds/castielsowhat
Summary: Chirrut saw the red blood of a child, caught in the middle of a fight, the stark white of a uniform pushing through a crowd, the brown of spice carts falling to the side.Baze saw Chirrut.--For the dailyspiritassassin gift exchange. I really struggled with this to be honest, but in the end, I  think it turned out fairly well. Enjoy, tellmevarric!





	Green

**Author's Note:**

> Minorly beta'd. All mistakes still left are my fault. (Also I haven't written in forever so I'm a little bit rusty - please forgive me!)

Chirrut will never forget green. He wasn’t born blind like many assumed he was, though the way he walked with ease and comfort often alluded to that possibility. When he was young, he was wild, reckless, and filled with life. His parent’s home on Takodana was always filled with his noise and energy, and life. Even years after leaving that place, Chirrut’s energy was contagious.

Takodana was green. Everywhere you turned it was lush and full of life, in many ways echoing its inhabitants. But it was at the same time, calm and centered. Chirrut would never forget that. 

When Chirrut was seven years old, things began to blur. He would climb a tree, something he had done countless times, only to realize he couldn’t quite tell where the forest ended and a clearing began. He would sit in the dark of his room, and pull back branches covering the window, only to shove them back when he couldn’t see the stars. 

Chirrut’s family had a history of bad vision. His parents knew that he would only follow that, and when they saw him withdraw, they explained that there were solutions, ways to practically fix his eyesight. Their boy was happy again.

When Chirrut was nine years old, his parents died. He was left in a transport station, no credits, and unable to even see the signs above the pads. The only thing he had with him was the clothes on his back, an oversized green tunic that slid off his shoulders, and red-brown pants that were ripped at the knees. No one looked at him twice when he followed a human couple dressed in strange dark robes onto a ship.

When Chirrut was ten, the green he had grown up with was replaced with the rust color of Jedha. He lived on the streets, previously dark hair becoming filled with sand blown up into it that it seemed to be dyed that way. He was small, thin, and most of all, quick. He would beg for food and money in the day and in the busy market times he would dash through and steal what he could. Chirrut wasn’t the only orphan in Jedha, however, though he was the nicest. Many of the others would fend for themselves and would as quickly throw you to the Loth-Cats to protect themselves. Chirrut became the patron saint - for lack of a better term - for the young kids on the streets of Jedha City. Even as the days began to grow darker and men known as Stormtroopers began to roam the streets, Chirrut kept the children close to him, and gave them food that he desperately needed himself.

When Baze Malbus was twelve, he was already known as one of the most talented and devoted students in the Jedhan Temple. In the mornings he would meditate, and attend lessons, and in the afternoons, he tended the gardens with more care than the other students could muster over anything but their own belongings at his age. Once a week, he would join one of the Masters on a trip to the market, and once a week he would deftly avoid the nimble fingers trying to delve into his pockets. He would smile and dodge the little hands as though they were incredibly obvious instead of the seasoned pickpockets that the orphans of Jedha had become. 

When Chirrut was eleven and Baze was twelve, their paths crossed for the first time. Chirrut had been told of the Guardians of the Kyber Crystals, and how they seemed to be so in touch with the Force that they could sense a pickpocket from a mile away. They were bad for business. So, the leader of the little gang, the patron saint of orphans, left his little corner of the city and ventured to the market once again. Baze had been following his Masters as they collected fruits, and spices, carrying the load of food with a smile. The market had been no more crowded than usual and yet, the farther he went, the more he had realized something was… off. 

No one had reached for his pockets. Not once had he had to dodge a prying hand. 

Baze’s eyebrows had furrowed as he’d patted a hand over his pocket and nearly dropped the basket in dismay. The few credits he'd been carrying and his necklace were gone. There was nothing but a few bits of clumped sand and lint, and a bit of dried leaves. He cried out in disbelief even as a chuckle came from behind him. 

Baze had turned to see a scrappy boy with long dirty hair and torn up clothes, one palm outstretched towards him. He had a cocky grin on his face and on his palm we're the contents of Baze’s pockets. With hesitation, Baze had taken the items back. 

“Don't worry, you won't be getting stolen from every time you come here,” the boy had said, almost gently. “I just had to prove it was possible, so the kids had something to work towards.”

Baze had glanced around and sure enough, in the corners of the market, watching their exchange were at least a dozen children, each as small and dirty as the next. When he turned back, the boy had one of the fruits in his hand and with a small wave, turned to leave. 

“Wait,” the older boy had called, shocked when the younger complied. “If you need food or help, come to the temple with us. You don't need to steal.” 

Chirrut had chuckled. “Why would we go to worship what hasn't helped us?”

Baze didn't see the boy at the market again, though his words rang in his head. 

When Chirrut was fifteen, and Baze was sixteen, their paths crossed again. There had been a fight with Stormtroopers in one of the darker and more crowded areas of the city, and all initiates were being called away from their daily duties to help tend to those who had been injured and brought there for help. 

Baze had moved through the crowds with purpose, robes rolled up and with blood still on his hands from the last wound he had bandaged. Halfway to the door he was stopped, yet again, by a scrappy boy. The pickpocket was taller now, but no less thin or dirty but this time, there was desperation in his face. His palm was outstretched and this time, Baze had taken it without hesitation. 

Chirrut had led him to a young boy, no older that seven or eight. There was nothing he could do. 

When Chirrut was sixteen and Baze was seventeen, their paths crossed again, at the Kyber Temple. Chirrut’s eyesight was failing him once again and he was worthless to those on the streets if he could not even see where he was walking. Baze had returned from the garden only moments before and was walking through the courtyard when he had turned in time to see a young girl leading a scrappy boy up the steps. At the top, he had said something to her and she ran off, leaving the boy alone, and lost. 

When Baze Malbus was seventeen, he reached out a palm, and when Chirrut Îmwe was sixteen, he took it, without hesitation. 

The healers at the temple saved his eyes enough that he could still see, though not well. Chirrut saw the red sands of Jedha, the bright sun and moon, the crinkles by Baze’s eyes when he laughed, the fear in the orphans eyes when he lead them to the temple, and the green of the gardens where Baze spent his afternoons in peace. 

Chirrut saw the red blood of a child, caught in the middle of a fight, the stark white of a uniform pushing through a crowd, the brown of spice carts falling to the side. 

Baze saw Chirrut. His determination to save all though around him. Baze saw Chirrut’s faith swell with every life he could save, even as his own dwindled with every fight. He saw Chirrut throw himself in front of blasters to protect those who had never had a protector, and Baze threw himself in front of Chirrut, for the same reasons. 

When Chirrut was eighteen, Baze wasn't fast enough. 

When Chirrut was eighteen, he lost his sight for the last time. 

When Baze was nineteen, he lost his faith. 

Chirrut lay pale on his bed for three days. Healers were around him, running in and out, the Masters prayed and lead initiates in other prayers. Baze never left his side. When Chirrut woke up, Baze had been meditating. He didn't see blank eyes fly open, or hear a gasp of breath, but he felt Chirrut’s arm fly out, palm outstretched, to grasp at Baze’s robes. Baze was there in an instant. 

“Chirrut, you're okay, I'm here,” Baze frantically said, one hand over Chirrut's, the other brushing over his head. 

“Ah,” Chirrut replied, his grip loosening. “So this is what it's like. I thought I could guess, but I completely missed the mark.”

Baze choked out a laugh. “You stupid, arrogant, fool.”

Chirrut only smiled. “I am your fool.”

When Chirrut was nineteen, he saw once again. It wasn't the same, how could it be, but it was close. He saw the rough texture of the sands under his fingers, the waxy plant leaves, the cool touch of Kyber on his skin, but most of all he saw Baze. He saw him in the quiet grunts of displeasure when a plant refused to grow straight, in the shifting of robes during meditation that were never there before. Chirrut saw Baze in the brush of thick hair that touched his face when he was grabbed into a hug by worried arms. 

“When did you decide to grow it out,” Chirrut had asked one night, combing through Baze's hair with a gentle tug of fingers. 

“I didn't,” Baze had replied almost harshly. “You would say the Force willed it to grow.”

Chirrut had understood then. There was no more faith in Baze Malbus. To those who didn't know them, they would assume that that broke them. They were arguing over the subject too often to be friends. 

In a way, those people were right. 

Baze and Chirrut were not friends, and in fact, they never really were in the first place. They were so much more. Baze saw Chirrut as brighter and more brilliant than the Force could ever be, and Chirrut saw Baze as the Force’s finest creation. Their moments together were private, a brush of lips before a fight, a grasp of hands during a meal, the warmth of each other doing more good than a thousand blankets on cold Jedhan nights. 

When the temple fell, Chirrut and Baze survived, back to living on the streets of Jedha and spending days in the markets. Once again, Chirrut carved out a corner for himself, though he was no longer alone. They lived humbly, one room, and a slight area that opened up to the harsh sun. Chirrut took up his place again as the patron saint of orphans, and Baze was lost. 

He was lost without a purpose, after losing his faith, the one thing he had carried for so long. As the Empire’s hold on Jedha became stronger, he watched as Chirrut took burdens upon himself that were not his to carry, and watched him get crushed under the weight of it. Chirrut stopped sleeping, though he hadn't been one to sleep in before, and started walking the walls of the city. 

At times, Baze would follow him, content to be at his side. Other times he would block the door with his body, even as Chirrut tried to move past. 

“It's not safe,” he would hiss, even as the heavy tread of boots moved past their door and down the street. 

“Which is why I need to go,” Chirrut always responded, a gentle touch to the side of Baze’s face accompanying it. 

Baze let him. He never strayed far though, a gentle comfort in Chirrut’s shadow. 

Other times, it was Baze who had to leave. Their credits ran low after Chirrut ran headlong into a battle, or Baze carried a sick child back with him. Chirrut would take Baze’s place at the door even as the other snapped on armor and cleaned his blasters. Baze wouldn't say a word when it was time, just drop a kiss to his head and brush past. 

“I’ll know if you try to run off with someone while you're away,” Chirrut would call, a hint a fear under a joking tone. 

“I know.”

Baze always came back for Chirrut. Sometimes he would be hurt, sometimes sore, but always tired. The ship would land and before the steam and smoke cleared, Baze would be able to see Chirrut across the way, waiting and listening. Every ship that landed would catch his attention, head turning imperceptibly. 

Baze would approach him and every time, Chirrut would smile fondly before he got close and call to him. 

“Didn't get yourself killed this time old man?”

“You'd miss me too much, fool.” 

Those nights were often the first time either had rested properly since Baze had left. Chirrut would let him cook - “Really, I'm not that bad!” “No, Chirrut.” - and they would talk quietly as they ate, enjoying the still heat of the air. Before the two lay down to rest, Chirrut would undo the new knots in his husbands hair, and Baze would relax into him, the tension of mercenary work finally leaving as he sipped steaming tea.

“Chirrut?”

“Yes?”

“This is fucking Tarine isn't it.”

“Would you believe me if I said no? Baze - stop, that tickles - stop have mercy-”

And in the middle of the night, Chirrut would wake to soft snores, and rough blankets, thick hair and calloused palms and think of green, of his home, of red sands and blurred vision, pockets and a basket of fruit. He thinks of crinkled laugh lines that even now, still appear when he tries to bring them forward, and the shifting of robes that had changed to the sound of a jumpsuit zipper, of a wooden staff hitting his own, that has changed to the sound of blaster fire protecting his back. Chirrut thinks of a hand clutching his, of desperation in a familiar voice, of stitches haphazardly done, and of wounds carefully cleaned and he turns into the man he met so long ago. Pressed into a familiar chest, familiar arms around him, Chirrut thinks, there's no place he'd rather be.


End file.
